If ef>? "' T HE 1HEÄJItE ' ; _Y 1. I ,...:. {::. . . ... .. '= 0 -'"",':=: .- S .'. f: . . t t _ .,. , IJ I \ · $, 't '<)\', :: RE-SURRE-C TION MAN *" .. T"' , 1 ' N OEL COWARD'S characters have always been inorganic, super- natural, and strange, but up to now they have been presented as actual people, made out of n1eat and subject to the law of gravity. In "Blithe Spirit," however, Mr. Coward has given us honest ectoplasn1 and also, I think, an interesting paradox: it is really easier to believe in one of his heroines if you don't have to pretend that she is mortal flesh and blood. The shin1n1ering, un- earthly wit is much n10re plausihle in a shade; the lively but quite disembodied preoccupation with sex is only natural in a lady n1ade of mist; the airy freedon1 from all econon1ic or political concern is reasonable enough in a girl who can no longer eat or vote. Generally speaking, it is a risky business for a playwright to tan1per with the Beyond, but Mr. Coward is a special case-if anything, more at hon1e with the shadow than the substance. The play at the Morosco is classified by its author as an "in1probable farce," but fron1 where I sat it looked at least as probable as either "Private L . " " D . f L .. " d . f Ives or eSlgn or IVlng an, I Father may bare his claws for a n10n1ent, not n1 uch n10re farcical than "Point Valaine." Like n10st of the Cow- d k " BI . h S . . " ar wor s, It e pInt is n10derately hostile to synopsis: the stage always seems to be full of furious activity, but in retrospect the plot dwindles until it is hard to believe that it could ha ve been spread out to consume rather n10re than two hours. In this instance, the facts in the case are even more meagre than usual. Charles L Condomine, a popular novelist residing in Kent at a time emphatically not the present, arranges a séance in order to get material for a book he is writing. His success is beyond his eeriest drean1s, since the mediun1, to her own proud astonish- ment, manages to produce the lovely, ashen spectre of his first wife. .Lt1.S this fashionable wraith (ceren1ents by Main- bocher) is visible and audible to no one but Condomine, her presence inevitably leads to a certain amount of domestic confusion" and the second Mrs. Con- domine, observing her mate addressing ::. :':\::u z;;,:.:,:, .',... .,.:...',' nothing, reasonably concludes that he is either drunk or a mental case. Even- tually, though, she IS persuaded that the pren1ises ctre indeed bewitched, and the two ladies settle down to one of the n10st unusual struggles ever waged over any n1an, especially one of the booksy type. In the end, through son1e ghost- ly error, the living Mrs. Condon1ine is killed in an auton10bile accident and is also transported to the astral plane, leaving the exasperated artist with two spooks on his hands. This, in essence, is the story of the play called "Blithe Spirit," and, for Shelley's peace of n1ind, it is probably just as well he died when he did. Given only this negligible n1aterial, however, Mr. Coward has written as deft, malicious, and fascinating a con1- edy as you could hope to see. His char- acteristic juxtaposition of peculiar words has never been neater ("You always had a certain seedy grandeur, Charles," one of the spectral dan1sels tells the hero in a typical love scene); his con1ic invention was never n10re brilliant or profuse ("As a n1atter of fact, she's rather good fun," says the first Mrs. Condon1ine, referring to Joan of -,Axc, with whon1, along with Mer- lin and Genghis Khan, she often played bridge across the Styx); and seldon1, I thInk, has any- hod y varied- the ancient triangle with quite so n1uch ingenuity and ma- lignant charm. Alto- <-.:' gether, with the exception of a brief stretch in the last act when Mr. Cow- ard apparently decided that two ghosts ough t to be twice as funny as one and the law of din1inishing returns hegan to set in, "Blithe Spirit" seen1ed to n1e an aln10st pure delight. Clifton Webb, as the haunted author, has just the correct wispy elegance and achieves, I should say, one of the best perforn1ances of his career, while Peg- gy vV ood and a beautiful, languishing Briton called Leonora Corbett are dead- ly and sweet as the ladies from hell. Mr. Coward's most notable creation, how- ever, a bouncy spiritualist who converses entirely in the hearty clichés of a games : ..,'..; (,:-.::., f. . ,:, ';:' '; " "" ' 3i Inistress or a Girl Guide, has been en- trusted to Mildred Natwick, who gives it the works. John C. Wilson's direction is all the master could possibly have asked. F OR a really Ingenious, if not a par- alyzing, plot, may I refer you to "The \Valrus and the Carpenter," at the Cort? It seen1S that Mrs. Essie Stuy- vesant, a widow won1an living in a fancy shack up on East Eighty-eighth Street, owes $800 in back rent and $360 for the butler's salary . Upstairs, one of her daughters is about to have L,;, a baby and whin1sically keeps asking for shrin1ps and Burgundy. \\'Then she doesn't get then1, she tries to bite the nurse. Downstairs, we find another daughter, Bickey, aged seventeen, in love with an unemployed actor; still an- other, called Gerda, unhappily married to an aesthete who always has his nose in Ruskin or Carlyle; a high-minded real-estate operative in love with Gerda; a genial old obstetrician in love with Mrs. Stuyvesant; an expectant father who Inakes $25 a week writing ad vertise- '-' n1ents; a villainous hutler who steals a sapphire ring which his n1istress had been planning to hock to pay the rent; and, finally, a nurse who is just terribly, terri- bly plain. An1usingly enough, these last three are nan1ed Yipper , Corder, and Pyngar. \Vell, when Mr. Stuyvesant died, he didn't leave n1uch of anything except a lot of old Spanish honds which l1ohody thought were worth a din1e and so . . . Had enough plot? Good. Paul- ine Lord, the leader in these shenan- igans, seen1ed to n1e a little bored or '-' inattentive or both. The others, includ- ing Nicholas Joy, Karen :\;lorley, and Frances Heflin, struggled through the long, doon1ed evening with a heroism not often equalled since Balaklava. " T HE MAN VlITH BLOND HAIR," which vanished fron1 the Belasco after seven perforn1ances, was a striking exan1ple of the effect of lotus-eating on the hun1an n1ind. A few years ago its author, Norn1an Krasna, wrote a tidy and respectable melodran1a called "Sn1all Miracle," and then pron1ptly de- parted for Hollywood, where he has been basking ever since. His new play, while containing vestigial traces of abil- ity, was probably the silliest atten1pt to deal with the Nazi menace up to now. It is Mr. Krasna's wistful theory that Hitler's disciples can be cured by noble example and for this purpose (and, in- cidenta1Iy, by a device that would em- barrass Shirley Temple) he planted an escaped German aviator in the bosom of a Jewish fan1ily in the Bronx, where he